


tender frostbite

by guanxi, kanxie



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Banter, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Grocery Shopping, Groping, Interrupted, M/M, Making Out, OsaAka Love Language, Post-Timeskip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27884764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guanxi/pseuds/guanxi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanxie/pseuds/kanxie
Summary: To Akaashi, winters in Tokyo go like this: he takes early morning walks, just so he can feel the snow settle on his skin, then come home to the warmth of strong arms around him; he learns how to cook a new dish that he never thought he could make; and, maybe, he falls a little more in love.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Miya Osamu
Comments: 16
Kudos: 116





	tender frostbite

Akaashi wakes up to the feeling of a strong, warm arm across his ribs and over his chest. It’s cold in the bedroom, despite the heavy duvet over their bodies, so he wraps the fabric tighter over himself, groaning in protest. The arm crossed over him shifts, pulling him flush against a broad body. “Mornin’,” whispers Osamu, dropping a gentle kiss into the place where Akaashi’s shoulder meets his neck.

“Good morning,” replies Akaashi, turning underneath the covers to face Osamu. It’s so dark, but Akaashi can still make out the quirk of Osamu’s lips, a bright, tender beacon in the brawn of his face. He leans forward to kiss Osamu on the mouth, fleeting and light. “What time is it?”

Osamu sighs, stretching his arms over his head. He reaches for his phone, blinks once, twice, at the sudden barrage of white light in the room. “Three forty.”

“Jesus,” says Akaashi, “you really do this every day?”

Osamu laughs, the sound deafening in the quiet of the early morning, despite its mellow tone. “Y’don’t have to help today if you’re still tired, babe,” he says.

“No, no,” responds Akaashi, pushing the duvet off his chest, sitting up as he does so. “I told you I would. And I want to! Why else would I sleep over at your frigid apartment?”

“Thank you,” says Osamu, drawing Akaashi into his arms. He kisses his temple, right beside his fluttering eyelid, and then pulls back to say, “Let’s shower and get dressed. We have twenty minutes.”

When they step outside, they find clouds that are heavy and low, a mist that seems to trail the ground, rising and falling. Akaashi can see the moon, a thin sliver of pale yellow light in the night sky. It illuminates Osamu’s form, dressed in his black Onigiri Miya uniform underneath a bulky winter coat. His hair is in a state of disarray, but he hides it well with his signature cap, Miya stitched at the front in _kanji_ , above the brim. Akaashi is taken at how cozy Osamu looks, bundled up against the cold.

Akaashi fits his own cap on his head and scrunches his nose at the way Osamu’s face floods with adoration. It’s quiet in this residential region of Tokyo, far off the beaten paths people take to get to work, so they keep their voices down. The other man playfully flicks the brim of the merchandise. 

“Y’look cute, Keiji. You a fan of my store or something?” 

“Mh,” Akaashi hums, pressing against Osamu’s side as they walk, “I’m hoping I’ll get a discount if I wear your merch.” 

“I’ll see what I can do.”

They hardly speak for the rest of the walk. A light layer of snow crunches underfoot and the morning frost is still dewy on the trees and the windows of nearby buildings. As they get closer to a main street, the sound of the cars and people rise with the light of the sun behind them. 

A small family-run fish market with locally caught salmon: a rare find in the ports of Tokyo. Osamu is old fashioned in the sense that he takes pride in collecting each of his ingredients on his own. They’ve been to Kita’s farm for day-long road trips whenever Akaashi can find time away from the office.

That’s how they got here in the first place; Akaashi has a day off.

He’s bone tired, though, so he lets Osamu guide him around the shop with a hand on the small of his back. 

“This rice isn’t as good as Kita’s,” says Osamu, pointing to an enormous stack of yellow rice bags near the back, “but when I’m desperate, it’s passable.” Akaashi smiles, squeezing Osamu’s upper arm, right where it’s softest.

“We’re just here for fish and _nori,_ right?”

“Yeah. I got a delivery of Kita’s rice two days ago. It’ll last a while.”

“Tuna?” Asks Akaashi, pointing to an array of large silver fish, bathing in ice. Their glassy white eyes peer at him, unblinking, and Akaashi shudders. The butcher is gutting and scaling fish at record speed behind the counter, and Akaashi watches as Osamu regards the man, transfixed in his expertise. 

“Yep, that’s tuna. And it’s fresh, too. Must’ve just come in.”

“Let’s get some,” encourages Akaashi, “Your tuna onigiri is always popular.”

“Yeah,” smiles Osamu. He looks at Akaashi, eyes softened by the sheer fondness seeping out of him. Akaashi can feel the burn of an oncoming blush creeping up his neck, so he looks away.

Once they buy what they need to, they’re back out into the rough chill of the city. The sun has peaked just a bit higher over the horizon, but Tokyo is still asleep. It’s ten minutes past the hour and Akaashi can’t help but let his mind wander, thinking of a hundred different lives for the people who are up and moving just the way they are. The man in the red car just came back from a night shift; the group of three huddled together at the crosswalk are taking early-morning photographs. It’s part of his job to think up stories, his mind working overtime. Imagination has started to become a natural process of his.

“Coffee?” Asks Osamu, pulling Akaashi out of his head the way he’s gradually learned to; slowly, so as not to startle him.

“Yeah,” Akaashi replies, “I need to wake up before your customers come in. Don’t want to scare them with my zombie face.”

“Your face is perfect,” murmurs Osamu, his lips dangerously close to Akaashi’s hair. He links his pinky finger with Osamu’s, for the briefest moment, before pulling away. His hand is immediately frigid, mourning the loss of Osamu’s skin.

“Shut up, you,” says Akaashi, his face bitten red by both the icy wind and the affection that courses through him.

Osamu grins. “Where d’you wanna go?”

“The one by Onigiri Miya,” responds Akaashi. “Their iced Americanos are strong.”

Osamu hums, the sound low at the base of his throat. Akaashi shivers, pulling himself as close to Osamu as he can without getting them in trouble.

Osamu bursts into laughter several minutes later as he watches Akaashi down his drink, despite the way his teeth chatter with every gulp. “Only you would get a cold drink when it’s freezing outside.”

“Iced coffee is a drink for every occasion,” asserts Akaashi, sticking his tongue out. Osamu laughs harder, and his cheeks are so round and red, his eyes crinkled just so, that Akaashi feels his breath catch in his throat. 

He doesn’t notice they’re outside Onigiri Miya until Osamu moves away from where they were pressed together. The store, just like most of Osamu’s things, is quite outdated, so it still requires a lock and key to open. 

The air inside is completely still. The leftover energy from yesterday’s shift has dissipated, leaving in its wake this calm that is seldom felt during the surge of customers at lunch time. Osamu isn’t fazed, doesn’t even give it a second glance, but it’s Akaashi’s first time here so early. He thinks of his partner doing this routine every morning, and bites back a smile. 

“Can just hang up your coat at the door, ‘m gonna just grab a few things from storage. Do whatever y’like, in the meantime,” Osamu explains, his tone as quiet and mild as it was outside. He takes down one of the chairs from where it was stacked upside down on the table, gesturing for Akaashi to sit there. 

Akaashi follows his instructions sleepily and looks around the store from his new vantage point. The Tokyo branch is relatively new, but it’s almost always busy. He notices a picture frame that’s been knocked out of place and stands up to correct it.

It’s when he steps back to see if it’s level that he feels Osamu behind him, chest to back. 

“Lookit you and your keen eyes,” he rumbles, and Akaashi feels the vibration all the way down to his toes.

Akaashi moves to turn around, but he’s stopped when two arms wrap around him, an apron in tow. He bows his head to allow Osamu to slip it through the loop, but he’s puzzled, all of a sudden. He hadn’t agreed to cooking; they both know how much of a newbie he is in the kitchen. Definitely not skilled enough to prepare food for others.

Osamu, like always, can read the hesitation in his body language. “Gotta make breakfast so I don’t pass out in the middle of the morning rush. You wanna help make me something to eat?”

All Akaashi can do is nod his head; Osamu’s retreat is palpable, and the loss of his warmth preoccupies Akaashi. He steps back to tie the straps of the fabric around Akaashi’s waist. There’s no noise; he can’t even hear the cars pass by the window. It’s like the entire store has been buried under a thick layer of snow, shutting the two of them away from the rest of the world. When he finally turns around, Osamu is already behind the counter. 

There’re ingredients for ham and egg onigiri spread out over the counter, at once so predictable and so not. Akaashi doesn’t know where he managed to find locally sourced spam, but it’s just like Osamu to find a way. “Keiji,” he says, “come help.”

Akaashi follows Osamu’s lead and washes his hands thoroughly before sliding in behind the counter, shoulder pushed up against Osamu’s. “Okay,” Akaashi agrees, “where should I start?”

“We have to make the filling first,” says Osamu, stretching forward to point at the assortment of bowls. “We need to cook these eggs, and then mix in the ham with a little bit of soy sauce.”

Akaashi nods, watching the swell of muscle in Osamu’s extended arm, the way it bursts forward and then retracts as Osamu shifts the bowls towards them. “Think you can scramble a couple eggs?”

“I can try,” is what Akaashi says. He cracks an egg into the waiting pan. “Shit. I got eggshell in there,” he winces.

“’S fine, Akaashi,” says Osamu, “I’ll fish ’em out. Crack another egg, and then let it cook for a second before using the spatula to form it into a circle.”

Akaashi nods, watching diligently as Osamu picks out the stark white bits of eggshell from the sizzling pan. Akaashi splits open another egg, and this time, it’s a clean break.

“There y’go! That was perfect.”

Akaashi’s grin is a tiny shadow on his face, but so real, and Osamu drops down to kiss behind his ear. Before Akaashi does or says anything embarrassing, he reaches for the spatula and gingerly moves the egg around the pan. “Um,” he whispers, “I think I forgot the oil.”

Osamu peers into the pan, and his eyes crinkle in the way that drives Akaashi crazy. “It’s a non-stick pan. All we gotta do now is fold it like an omelette.”

Akaashi is relieved when he steps away from the stove, handing the spatula to his partner. Osamu rolls his eyes teasingly, then demonstrates how to get it into the proper shape. He slides the egg out of the pan onto a plate, sticking a makeshift lid on top to trap the heat.

The rice is almost done, in perfect sequence with the meat that bubbles in a splash of oil and cooks golden brown. He adds some sauces and spices that Akaashi can’t identify, not when his eyes are preoccupied with the sight of Osamu’s expert hands dancing around the counter. When Osamu finally lines up all the bowls in front of him, all the ingredients have cooled down and are ready for assembly.

“Y’ready to make your first onigiri, babe?” Osamu asks him conspiratorially, whispering even lower. It’s like they’re sharing a secret; Osamu’s always been this way, peculiar but endearing. Even when he comes up with his outlandish, elaborate theories, he never fails to tell Akaashi first, making sure he understands; he is at the forefront of all of Osamu’s thoughts. 

Akaashi feels nervous all of a sudden as he nods his head. It seems childish, but he really doesn’t want to mess up.

With water and salt in a thin layer on his hands, he listens to Osamu’s directions. Make a loose square shape out of a handful of rice. Grab the small squares of egg and ham. Lay them on top. Get another flat square of rice and cover the filling. Mold the rice into a thin cube. Take a sheet of _nori_ that Osamu divides into perfect portions, and fold it around the rice. 

“I did it.”

Osamu pulls him closer by the hips, his smile radiant, “You did so well. Lemme have a bite.”

Akaashi relents when he promises to only take a small one. His trepidation is replaced by a swell of pride when Osamu’s eyes widen and he hums approvingly.

“You have to try that.” 

As he finishes the first bite and immediately dives back in for more, Akaashi begins to understand the addiction to cooking that chefs seem to have. It tastes good, sure, but it tastes even better because they made it together. It’s sappy, but he tells Osamu as much.

It earns him a kiss on the nose.

“Too damn cute. Go sit down and I’ll make you another before I get started. You need to finish your coffee, y’look like you’re gonna fall over flat.” 

It’s five thirty when Akaashi circles the bar and sits on one of the stools that face the work station. Osamu works quickly and efficiently, handing the second onigiri over the glass case. The typical work day would start in an hour and half, which gave him just enough time to prepare onigiri for the morning customers. 

Atsumu, too, had placed a large order for an assortment of rice balls last night, enough to feed his entire team. While Osamu moaned about having all this extra work to get through thanks to his twin, of all people, Akaashi knows Osamu is grateful Atsumu continues to support his business.

Akaashi breaks the gentle silence with, “I feel bad.”

Osamu cocks his head to acknowledge him, expressing that he’s listening, but his eyes don’t leave the countertop as he stuffs and shapes the rice. “Why’s that?”

“I want to help, but there’s not really anything I can do…”

The tiny curl of Osamu’s lip brings with it a tightness in Akaashi’s chest, and he sighs. “It’s okay, Keiji. I do this alone every day, remember? It’s nice having you here because you make me smile while I work. I love it.”

Akaashi can’t seem to respond. The words are there, at the tip of tongue, but struggle to get past his lips. He’s moments away from melting into the ground. “You’re so sappy,” he grumbles. “But, no, seriously. Do you need me to sweep the place? Set anything up? Get you something?”

Osamu’s smile is loving, and it fills Akaashi up; it’s all he can see. “Finish your coffee,” he says, “and then you can walk around and see if anything looks out of place.”

Akaashi’s hands are still red from the cold, and they grip the plastic cup tightly he fills his mouth with the bitterness of now-watery black coffee. He nods, then looks over the display to where Osamu’s hands fly, mixing tuna and mayo in a large silver bowl. “Looks amazing, ’Samu,” he says. 

Osamu looks up at him and smiles. The noise in the store is reduced to the sound of food being prepared and his apron swishing as he walks. A snow plow comes and goes, a stray cat knocks over a can outside. Akaashi throws his empty cup in the trash and stands up, straightening his own apron. 

“Y’know, spending the winter here with you always reminds me of when we first met.”

Akaashi turns around, a small smile on his face, “We first met at Nationals, though.” 

“Nope,” Osamu stays, popping the end of the word, “We saw each other for the first time at Nationals. That doesn’t count as us _meeting._ I’d remember if I’d heard your voice before.”

The blush is up on his cheeks before he can do anything about it. Akaashi distracts himself by pulling down more chairs from the table, tucking them where they have to go. They haven’t been together very long, but Akaashi still thinks that he should’ve had this whole flustered thing under control by now. Osamu thinks it’s cute and that makes Akaashi squirm.

He doesn’t say anything, so Osamu continues. 

“That isn’t the point, anyway. The point is that y’look good during the winter, Keiji. It suits you. I was thinking ‘bout how cute that turtleneck looked on you at that game.”

Akaashi tilts his head, “The Jackals-Alders game? I thought I was wearing a coat.”

“You had that white turtleneck on,” says Osamu, “with the long, tan jacket. So fucking sexy. I wanted to kiss you then, y’know.”

Akaashi’s face has hardly had time to cool down before it heats right back up. His cheeks are mottled red and white; he’s a blotchy blusher, and Osamu delights in it. “Jesus,” Akaashi says. After a moment, he adds, “It was a white crewneck.”

“Hm?” Osamu’s slicing _nori_ into short, wide segments, one after another, with astonishing speed. The crackling of the dried seaweed is a calming addition to their quiet conversation.

“It was a white crewneck, with the tan coat. Not a turtleneck.”

“Oh yeah?” There’s a lilt to Osamu’s words, like he’s teasing. Pushing. Testing.

“Yeah,” Akaashi breathes, more warm air than anything else. “I wanted to kiss you, too.”

“You didn’t even know I existed before that game,” Osamu prods. He’s smiling, though, and the skin beside his eyes curl just so, tiny crow’s feet that melt into the rest of his face, radiating joy. 

“Wait, what?”

“Hinata told me you were surprised to see that the Miyas were triplets,” Osamu’s voice raises as he walks into the backroom for a moment to grab something, “Broke my heart, Keiji!” 

Sometimes Akaashi feels out of his depth in conversations with Osamu. He can breeze through any business meeting, doesn’t stutter when ordering food, and has the verbal cognizance to get Tenma back up on his feet. Banter, however, wasn’t part of his repertoire. In his mind, he’s flipping through a deck of reusable jokes and punchlines, trying to map out how he can navigate Osamu’s endless teasing jabs. 

It’s not to say he doesn’t love them, because he does. He blushes when they’re directed at him, and it makes his head spin. It creates an environment where Akaashi can at least _try_ to be less uptight.

“You had black hair! Every other time I’d seen you, it was gray. I seriously thought there were three of you, even though that terrifies me.” Akaashi humors, walking over to get the duster he knows is just around the corner, “If it’s worth anything, I think this hair looks much better on you. Had you kept it black back then, maybe I would’ve noticed you before the Black Jackals’ game.” 

“You wound me,” is Osamu’s response, but the smile never leaves his face. Akaashi could look at him all day, lit up under those bright store lights.

“I mean, I did notice you,” says Akaashi, his voice catching on the words as he says them, “Before. You’re very hard to miss.”

“How so?”

“Um,” he starts, already losing steam after just two comebacks. He aimlessly sweeps any ledge he can find, getting on his tip-toes to reach the artwork on the walls. “Well, you’re a twin. That’s fairly rare. And. I was there watching your team play Karasuno; you were paired up with Bokuto’s disciple.” 

Osamu smiles down at the food he’s making, shaking his head, “Sixteen year old me didn’t have any game, anyway. Saw you from the sidelines, but I never coulda approached you.” 

Akaashi turns on his heel. “Okay. That’s a lie, ’Samu. You wouldn’t have approached me because you thought you were straight in high school.” 

“But, I technically wasn’t, so the implication is still there.”

Down to the nitty-gritty details, as always. Being an only child, this incessant nagging had caught Akaashi by surprise when they started dating. He thought Osamu was looking to fight and argue out of malicious intent, like he was oppositional without any reason. It wasn’t until he saw Atsumu and Osamu, jabbing at one another endlessly, and with reckless abandon, that it made sense. 

He huffs. 

“’Sides,” Osamu continues, “I’m the one who noticed you first. I get points for that.” 

He has to think of something. He can’t lose this one. 

“N-No, I saw you in a volleyball magazine back in first year, actually. So, I was first.” 

Alas, he is a terrible liar.

“Yeah? Which one, baby?” 

The Onigiri Miya logo on the wall is suddenly very interesting to Akaashi. There are only seven ways to best Osamu in a battle of words; five ways to prevent it from starting; and near infinite ways of delaying it. Many of them revolve around ego, just like Bokuto’s weaknesses. 

“Hmm, I quite like the modern design you chose for this location. Yachi-san really made your vision come to life, didn’t she?”

Hook, line and sinker. Osamu’s hand comes up to itch his neck, as it does when he’s feeling uncharacteristically bashful. 

“Yeah. Real beauty, ain’t it? Was debating on doing the same to the Osaka location, but people there seem to like the more traditional style.” 

“Yachi’s adaptable, and exceptional,” is Akaashi’s response. “She could easily nail a more rustic feel, if that’s what you want for the old store.”

“You’re right, I’ll talk to her about it.” Osamu’s focus shifts fully to his work, and the conversation fizzles out into nothing. The quiet, however, is far from strained, and Akaashi delights in watching his partner work as the sun creeps up the sky. Osamu’s fingers flex as he works into the rice, the tendons on the back of his hand a raised roadmap, oscillating above and below his delicate bones, hills and valleys of veins and skin. Akaashi shivers, and begins to move.

“You alright?” Osamu asks, ever so perceptive, as Akaashi circles the counter, moving to fit himself against Osamu’s back.

“I am now,” purrs Akaashi, his mouth moving against Osamu’s pulse point as he speaks, lips dragging on hot skin. Osamu falters, but then his hands double down on their effort, working at a frenzy, like he’s been electrocuted.

“God, Keiji,” he groans, “Look at what you do to me.”

“Hm?” Akaashi’s arms climb up Osamu’s sturdy body, stopping when they encircle his waist. He kisses Osamu’s neck one more time before stepping back. “Wanted to get a closer look at what you’re doing.”

Osamu’s shaky breath becomes a jittery laugh, though his neck and ears are infallibly red. “You’re such a tease.”

“And you aren’t?” Akaashi jokes, squeezing Osamu’s arm as he stands beside him. “No, seriously. If it doesn’t bother you, I want to properly see what you’re doing.”

“’Course not,” says Osamu, “as long as you don’t try to make any yourself.”

Akaashi’s eye roll is the kind that could be picked up by the Richter scale, but he nuzzles up to Osamu regardless. 

The store returns to the amiable quiet it was bathed in before, muffled noises from outside filling the void. Neither of them like to listen to music while they work, so this is just fine. Akaashi could probably have fallen asleep where he stood, but he feels the rumble of Osamu’s voice start up again.

“Y’know, not only did I notice you first, I also recognized you at the Black Jackals’ game. I thought to myself, ain’t that Fukurodani’s setter? Lo and behold, I was right.” Osamu moves to line up several rice balls in the display case. These are for show, and the case was specifically bought because it holds moisture. This level of attention to detail is so attractive to Akaashi. 

“There’s no way to prove that. You treated me like a customer at that game.” 

“Oh? Was I supposed to yell at’cha? Don’t like my customer service voice? Or maybe I shoulda swept you off your feet right then and there.” 

“Maybe you should’ve!” Akaashi stands beside Osamu, paying attention to the way he works with each piece, making sure to get the distance and placement just right. Akaashi rouses as he watches, pent up energy surfacing and retreating with each breath. He’s not sure how to go about this. “Besides the two teams, you must’ve been the biggest attraction there. People were always walking towards and away from you, whether to buy something, or flirt, I guess. I didn’t have the nerve to talk to you properly.”

Osamu’s mouth scrunches, as if to laugh, but he stops when he catches sight of Akaashi, whose lips are drawn in a thin, pensive line. He’s not done yet.

“But I sucked it up, and I decided I had to talk to you, because neither of us played anymore, but we were both close to people who did. We were tied to volleyball, in that sense, and I think, in my head, that meant we were tied to each other, too, even if we didn’t know it yet.” Akaashi swallows, “Also, I just thought you were so hot.”

Osamu does laugh, this time, the sound distractingly loud. Akaashi doesn’t mind the disruption, and he smiles, but he’s so nervous he could throw up. His stomach churns uneasily. Osamu is like that sometimes, dismissive without meaning to be. That’s what happens when you grow up with a brother that’s always pushing you; you learn to push back until it becomes habit. “You sure I didn’t talk to you first? ’Cause I’m pretty sure I did.”

Akaashi feigns indignancy, “I’m the one who approached you!”

“Couldn’t exactly leave my cart, now, could I?”

“I— well… ” Akaashi splutters. They may no longer play volleyball, but they are two incredibly competitive people, and things as trivial as whispered conversation in the early hours of the morning become games in and of themselves. And Akaashi detests losing.

Osamu smirks. “I said hi first. Welcomed you. And you _responded,_ which means, once again, I was first.”

“I, um…” Akaashi racks his mind for any detail, no matter how small, that could push him over the edge. He takes his left hand in his right, locks them together to ground himself. “I thought about you first… and I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“Keiji,” says Osamu, “You really are perfect, aren’t you?”

Akaashi shakes his head, dark hair falling over the rims of his glasses. “Tell me you felt it, too.”

Osamu leans away from the case, wipes his hands against his apron. “I saw you first, remember? Couldn’t take my eyes off of you the entire time. Who cares if it threw me off the game?”

Akaashi snorts, and Osamu grins in that shit-eating way of his. It tugs Akaashi down, puts him at ease. The pressure in his stomach relents, and he steps back so Osamu can slide the glass door shut, sealing the onigiri in.

“I can’t believe it! You’re such a liar! That was your captain’s last game and we all know how you and Atsumu felt about that. Your smooth talk doesn’t fool me, sweetheart.” Akaashi watches the way Osamu moves around the kitchen, slower than before. He must be nearly finished preparing. They have thirty minutes before the door’s unlocked. 

“What?” Osamu feigns innocence, elongating the word. He is entirely unconvincing; one would think that, with over twenty years of practice, he’d be better at it. “Hey, I have two eyes, alright? I can appreciate all kinds’a beauty. That’s what I was put on this Earth to do, wasn’t it? Feast?” 

Akaashi crosses his arms, “No one likes a wandering eye, ’Samu.” 

“Got nowhere to wander now, though, do I? Got everything I need right here in my kitchen,” he murmurs, pulling Akaashi closer again by the hips. He bends slightly so that their noses can brush. They’re warm together, sheltered even further from the weather outside. 

This is a home away from home for Osamu, and Akaashi is starting to find a place for himself here, too. A sweater he lent Osamu is folded on a table in the storage room; a book he thought he lost is there, too. Pieces of him were scattered all over before he even stepped in the restaurant this morning. 

“Tell me more about when you first saw me at the Jackals’ game, then.” 

“Jeez,” Osamu says, leaning back but keeping his hands on either side of Akaashi’s body, boxing him against the counter, “if I try to make sense of where my head was that day, I just end up getting lost in my thoughts about you. Y’just walked up to me like y’didn’t even realize what you were putting me through. Have I told you how beautiful you are?”

Akaashi flushes. “A few times.”

Osamu pinches his cheek, and Akaashi swats at that hand, drawing a brazen smile from his boyfriend, “Well, you deserve to hear it more than a few times, pretty baby.” He gets that look again, like he’s far away somewhere, completely absorbed in the story he’s telling, “Made you laugh that day, too. That little giggle of yours.”

“I did not laugh.” Akaashi scoffs. He hardly laughs at anything, and Osamu isn’t even that funny. Those stupid Manzai schticks he falls into with Atsumu make Akaashi cringe. Lovingly, though. 

He’s met Ojiro, who told him it’s always been like this, and to not hold out hope that it’ll change. It’s not even that he wants it to change; he feels honored by how Atsumu has grown to accept him as part of the Miya clan. He was apprehensive at first, protective over his twin, just as Osamu is over Atsumu. Over time, though, Akaashi’s learned how to adapt to Atsumu, the same way he’s had to with Osamu. 

Some days he’ll wake up to messages on Instagram from Atsumu, random memes, senseless jabber, and blackmail pictures of Osamu in his youth, often in embarrassing situations. He’s quite endearing, in a little brother sort of way.

“You did! Swear on my grave. Made me laugh, too. Guess we’re just a bundle of fun like that.”

“We are not.” And, okay, maybe it sounds like he’s just disagreeing out of principle, but he doesn’t remember any of this. They’re a boring couple, and that's one of Akaashi’s favorite things about their relationship.

“Aw, c’mon now,” Osamu whines, “You’re just disagreeing with me for the sake of disagreement. It’s not fair! You laugh with me all the time!”

“I laugh at you, not with you,” Akaashi articulates, his hands moving down to settle over Osamu’s, which are still gripping his hips, fingers pressed into each dip and valley of skin and bone. Osamu jumps at the sudden cold of Akaashi’s icy fingers, but then tightens his own hands in response. “But, seriously, I promise I’m not,” Akaashi says, sliding his hands up Osamu’s strong arms. Akaashi’s palms leave a trail of goosebumps in their wake, the hairs on Osamu’s skin standing in attention. “Are you almost done with prep?”

Osamu nods dazedly, his sharp Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. His tongue is a weight of lead in his mouth, and Akaashi watches his pupils dilate until the black eclipses the piercing gray. “I’m done,” he finally says.

“Good,” Akaashi hums, his hands climbing up Osamu’s body, clutching his biceps, then his shoulders, reaching up to take off the Onigiri Miya hat and place it on the counter. His hands finally come to rest on either side of Osamu’s face, stroking the skin there. Akaashi breathes in, then kisses Osamu, right there against the counter. Osamu is shaken from his momentary stupor; he comes alive, thumbs grazing along the divots in Akaashi’s hips, before his hands find themselves at the small of Akaashi’s back. He presses Akaashi closer to him, impossibly so, and kisses back fiercely. 

Akaashi can’t help himself; he tilts his head, moves his mouth against Osamu’s, then slides one hand onto his chest. He adores Osamu’s chest; solid, thick with muscle, but soft, somehow, rounded and perfect. He squeezes the pec muscle in his palm, once, then again, more insistently. Osamu groans, a sound torn out from deep within his throat, and opens his mouth. 

Akaashi’s subsequent gasp is swallowed by Osamu, whose tongue grazes teeth, the roof of his mouth. Osamu’s fingers tug at the hair at the base of Akaashi’s scalp, pulling, only to caress away the subtle sting. In his haste, he knocks Akaashi’s hat clean off his head, but Akaashi barely notices. He’d forgotten he was even wearing one, and it’s clear Osamu had, too.

Osamu’s other hand kneads Akaashi’s ass, and Akaashi would laugh at the absurdity of it all if he wasn’t so turned on.

Osamu’s tongue meets Akaashi’s, and he sets away every stray thought racing through his mind, zeroing in, instead, on that singular point of contact. He lets Osamu touch, and he touches back, feels himself melt. Osamu’s face is blazing beneath his hand, and he envisions the sweltering blush on his face, beet-red and gorgeous. Akaashi knows his own face is hardly faring any better.

Osamu pulls back, their mouths separating with the kind of obscene _pop_ that rattles Akaashi, the kind of noise Akaashi will never acknowledge, but secretly enjoys. Akaashi drinks in the sight of his boyfriend, black hair mussed into his face, lips glossy with Akaashi’s spit, hands trembling where they grasp at skin and fabric. Osamu takes one look at Akaashi, his eyes shiny and unfocused, before lurching back, his lips messy on Akaashi’s. His tongue pokes at the underside of Akaashi’s thin upper lip, lifting the flesh, before he curls his tongue back towards his own mouth. 

Akaashi is unsteady on his feet; he leans against Osamu’s feverish body, braces himself against his unyielding form. He feels Osamu all over him, in his mouth, on his back, against his thighs. He breathes out shakily through his nose, even as his eyes roll back into his head.

He digs his teeth into Osamu’s fat lower lip, adjusting the angle of his head so the skin is pulled taut. He rolls the lip in his mouth, sucks on it until Osamu whimpers, then releases. He runs his tongue along the bitten flesh, soothing, and Osamu sighs into his mouth. Akaashi kisses the corner of Osamu’s curled mouth, licks that very spot till it gleams. Osamu’s fingers sink back into Akaashi’s ass, like he can’t help himself either, and Akaashi smiles against Osamu’s face.

Osamu feels it, that quirk of his lips, and he grins, kissing a searing trail up Akaashi’s face, first his lips, then his cheek, his nose, his forehead. “Those damn glasses,” he growls, “keep getting in the way.”

Akaashi pulls them off his face, folds them carefully, then places them on the counter behind Osamu. “There,” he says. A pause. Their wet, labored breathing is the only sound in the store. “Kiss me again.”

Osamu doesn’t need to be told twice. He cups Akaashi’s face in his palms, pulls his face forward, ever so tenderly. This kiss catches Akaashi off-guard; it’s soft, Osamu’s lips an airy force against his own, moving languidly. Akaashi follows the pace Osamu sets, his eyes closed as he strokes Osamu’s hair, pushing it back from his forehead just to feel each strand between his fingers. If Osamu doesn’t stop, Akaashi’s worried he’ll cry; he’s overflowing with a whole host of emotions he can’t even begin to identify.

“Aw, ew. Gross!” The sound of heckling rushes in from outside, muffled by thick glass. Akaashi shoves Osamu away out of instinctual fear. He’s relieved, though, when Osamu doesn’t fall. His heart is beating out of his chest, like he’s been running. 

Instead of resorting to damage control, Osamu groans, “Fuck off, ’Tsumu.” 

Oh. Well, now Akaashi feels rather silly. 

Osamu runs his hands over his face and takes a deep breath, trying to will his blood to other places of his body. The _thump thump thump_ of Atsumu’s fists on the glass is repetitive, increasing in speed. Akaashi wants to take back every nice thing he ever thought about him. 

It’s only another thirty seconds before Osamu’s fraying sanity knits back together and gives him enough clarity to round the counter and stomp over to the door. Akaashi watches as he flicks the lock with unnecessary flare and pushes the door open so fast it makes Atsumu stumble backwards. Akaashi bites back a laugh.

Atsumu doesn’t bother kicking the snow off his boots before he enters, so he tracks wet, dirty puddles into the store. Akaashi remembers seeing a couple of mats and a mop; one last thing he could do to help before he has to leave. His apartment is sleek and modern, so he’s used to having to keep things extra neat. 

If he thinks about it, this Onigiri Miya location almost feels reminiscent of the mahogany floors and low lighting in his home. He makes a mental note to bring that up later, and tunes back into the twins’ bickering.

“—so, I told them I wouldn’t pick it up ‘till after the lunch rush, ‘cause I know you get busy ’n all that, but they were chomping at the bit for something, so I just came here early. Y’all know these windows are see-through, right?” 

Osamu kicks the back of his leg, and Atsumu shrieks, the sound wholeheartedly exaggerated. It makes Akaashi smile. “You can’t see anything with the sun reflecting on it like that. You were the one with your face pressed to the glass. Ain’t gotta worry about other people stalking me like you do.” 

Atsumu pouts, then slides onto one of the barstools, “G’morning, Keiji-kun. Lookin’ as dashin’ as ever.” It earns him a slap to the head. Osamu is a tactile person; the only difference is that he’s gentle with Akaashi and horrible with Atsumu.

Akaashi smiles and places his glasses back on his face. “Thank you. How’s the team?” 

That throws Atsumu into a whole new story, one that Akaashi has probably already heard over the phone from Bokuto. He listens, because he’s good at that, but he’s still trying to come down from the emotional high he was just experiencing. Whatever Osamu had just done to him, he needs to do it again, and as soon as possible. 

Osamu carefully lays the rice balls he prepared earlier into the large delivery box, sixteen in total. Atsumu always eats for free when he comes alone, but even he knew it was ridiculous to ask Osamu for such a huge order without a cost attached. 

Atsumu is not a complete dick; he pays earnestly for the order, nods at Osamu in thanks. The box is in his hands within moments, and he’s gone before either of them can say anything.

“Typical,” Osamu mutters, but his words are tinged with a faint fondness. He loves his brother to bits, that much Akaashi is sure of. 

The sun has risen, now, to hover high above the clouds, and natural light filters into the store, washing it with a glow that outshines the overhead fixtures. Osamu looks so lovely, lit up and warm, and Akaashi never wants to leave. There’s so much to think about, and it makes his head spin. “I have to go soon,” he begrudgingly admits.

“Already?” Osamu’s eyes are drawn to the clock hanging on the wall above Akaashi’s head, the minute arm inching ever closer to seven in the morning. “Shit.”

“Yeah.” Akaashi’s voice is soft, his eyes downcast. There’s a smudged fingerprint at the corner of one of his lenses, so he takes his glasses off, wipes at them with the edge of his shirt, before placing them back on his face. “I loved it, Osamu. This was so much fun, especially at the end.”

Osamu gathers Akaashi in his arms, crowds him to his chest. Akaashi lets his head fall onto Osamu’s curved shoulder, breathes in the clean smell of his soap and cologne. He kisses Osamu’s pulse point, feels the beat of his heart against his lips, and steps back. “At least gimme a proper kiss before y’go,” Osamu says, the pout of his lips equal parts thrilled and dismal.

Akaashi grins, “You’re incorrigible.”

Akaashi is glad, however, that Osamu asked, because there’s never a moment when he isn’t thinking about kissing him. Akaashi’s arms encircle Osamu’s neck, and Osamu’s hands are flat on Akaashi’s back, drawing slow, lazy circles as he glides his hands up, and down, and back up. Akaashi shivers when he feels the cold air on his lower back, exposed where Osamu’s fisting his shirt. 

Akaashi loves it, the way Osamu kisses him, every time like it’s the first. He thinks, distinctly, punctuated with each tug of his lip, tongue against the side of his mouth, that he’d be happy to die this way.

That’s grim, even for Akaashi, and he quickly shakes that thought away, focuses instead on Osamu. Beautiful, capable Osamu. How’d he get so lucky? He starts to think about forever, but he’s cut short by the sound of Osamu’s phone timer beeping a few times.

Osamu’s voice is rough when they pull apart. “You sure you gotta leave? You could stay and chill on the staff room sofa, if you want?” 

“Nope,” Akaashi smiles, giving Osamu’s chest one last parting squeeze before he steps away from the counter, “I told you I was going to try to fix my dresser today, didn’t I? And then I have to pick up a few things, but I’ll be back once you close, okay?”

Osamu concedes and fits his cap back on his head, looking in the reflection of his phone screen to readjust it. Once he’s satisfied that he looks more put together, he says, “Alright, if y’say so.” He turns around to see Akaashi with the mop, eyebrows furrowed, “Wait wha—?” 

Akaashi rolls the bucket over to the slushy mess near the front door, “Atsumu-san left a mess. I wanted to fix this before I left.” 

  
It’s a simple job, done in less than a minute. He keeps his head down, mildly embarrassed. He can feel Osamu watching him as he drags the mop across the floor, soaking up the grime. He knows what he’s doing helps out, but Osamu didn’t ask him to, so he can’t help but overthink the gesture. When he’s done, he puts the mop back where he found it, and jogs a little to retrieve the mats. They’re rolled out, creating a line from the door to Osamu’s workstation. He can see his hat, slumped on its side behind the counter, and he grins at the memory of Osamu swatting it off as they kissed. He picks it up, carefully dusts it off, and places it firmly back on his head. Akaashi unties the apron still draped across his front, then takes his coat off the hanger, sliding it back on. He already feels over-warm. 

“Keiji.” 

Akaashi looks up from where he’s wrangling with his scarf, a shy smile on his face. He hears everything he needs to know just from that tone alone, “What?” 

“I love you. So much. Are you sure you gotta leave? I could close up shop today, I could.” 

Five minutes remain until they open. Akaashi is sure there’s already a line out front. They’ve had their goodbye kiss and can’t risk another. He wonders what it would be like to dive over the display case, tackle his boyfriend to the ground, and kiss him senseless without having to worry about people seeing. There have been moments, in the past, where he came close, but that nagging fear of being discovered always lurks in the recesses of his mind. Akaashi pushes that sudden thought aside; they’re a fairly private couple, and he is always presented with plenty of opportunities to express how he feels about Osamu. There is a time and place for it all, and he’s willing to wait. 

“And I love you. You’ll see me in,” Akaashi checks his watch, feeling his heart lurch a little, “Wow, thirteen hours.”

Osamu sighs dramatically and meets him at the door to let him out. There’s tension between them, this overwhelming, almost subconscious pull that begs their lips to come together again. Their bodies are drawn to one another, always reaching and searching; it’s an electric attraction beyond their control. Osamu dispels it with a swift smack to Akaashi’s ass, “See you later, babe.”

Akaashi shoots him one last playful look, then runs his tongue over his own lower lip, excruciatingly slow. _Later,_ he mouths. Before Osamu can respond, he turns away, stepping back into the frosty January air. 

**Author's Note:**

> happy akaashi day! be safe everyone
> 
> [twitter 1](https://twitter.com/iwaizuumis)
> 
> [twitter 2](https://twitter.com/ojirozs)


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